Warm Bread
by KyMahalei
Summary: What is it that feeds the heart? Teitho winner Please review if you can


Warm Bread by KyMahalei

Summary: What is it that feeds the heart?

Rating: K

Disclaimer: My thanks to the professor for all that is his.

There are a lot of things to love in this world. I think for me one of the things I love the most is the smell of fresh baked bread. Sometimes, if I catch the smell of it by accident, it can throw me back to a time when I was little, watching my grandmother knead the bread like it was an extension of herself. She made bread every day. Every day she followed the same ritual, measuring ingredients with a pinch or a handful. She had a wide spoon she used for mixing and a large ceramic bowl that was cracked near the rim. When the dough was smooth and stiff, she'd begin to knead it, getting into the rhythm of the folding and pushing and folding and pushing and then she'd get a far away look in her hazel eyes; they were open and clear like the vast plains of Rohan where I was born. I always wanted to help her then, but I knew if I just sat still and didn't bother her she'd eventually start talking about my grandpa. He was a ranger, see. One of those men who live on the edge of the world, driven by some unseen hand to serve as protector to the helpless. He was a healer too, and had studied with Elrond the Wise. He was set to follow in the path of his forefathers until he found himself in Rohan and fell hard for my grandma. She was beautiful and sparkled with energy and grace and my grandpa left everything to come and make a home with her.

Things went fine for a long time, and there are many stories of the folk my grandpa healed and the horses my grandma raised, but in the end being a healer wasn't enough to save him from the blistered fever that took him and both my parents in the heat of the summer when I was ten. Grandma won't talk about that summer, and I'm just as glad. When she's folding and pushing the bread she tells mostly happy stories. Sometimes, if I am good at keeping her going, she'll keep talking as the bread rises and bakes. The smell of baking bread always pulls in someone from the yard. Sometimes two or three of our hired hands come in and we all sit around eating one succulent slice after another, washing it down with apple ale. The smell of fresh bread reminds me of home, of all the events and people that I belong to – and all the folk that belong to me.

Of course, that's all behind me now. Since I became a healer in my own right I haven't had the time to sit still for that long. I do have a few things from my grandpa's healer's pouch that I always keep with me. His stitching needles are there, and I use them often. They are elvin forged and as sturdy as any sword blade. His ranger brooch is also in there. The points are a bit bent, but you can still see the etching in the silver as plain as day. I always keep fresh altheas on hand in his memory, though I don't think it is really good for much. And I have a little package wrapped in green cloth that Elrond the Wise gave to my grandpa to only be used with elves when there really was a need. There really wasn't a need for a long time, in part because I didn't actually know what the package was, and in part because I never saw an elf until just a short time ago.

That changed the first evening we arrived at Helm's Deep. For the most part the evacuation to the old fort had been uneventful. Grandma had brought her bread supplies of course. She set the bowl and spoon with the flour and leaven in one corner of the wagon. She had few other belongings, and had set me and a couple of other healers up in what was left of her wagon to take care of the injuries that might happen as we journeyed to the safety of the keep. There were no serious injuries – a three year old had her fingers nipped by a horse that was unhappy, and we allowed one woman to ride with us who had gone into labor, but the Rohirrim are ever a hardy lot and we weren't much needed.

I was a little concerned about moving so many of my medical supplies to Helm's Deep. I had no doubt that the dark forces that were routing us from our homes would eventually find their way to the fortress. We had been told to bring supplies for war or a siege. I spent more time than I should have reviewing the things I had brought. There was precious little monk's hood as it was out of season, and I knew that it's salve was about the most effective thing to be had for clotting the blood. Bandages we had plenty. Grandmother had no pride when it came to collecting rags for that purpose. We had plenty of poppy too, and a strong tincture at that. It had been harvested in early June and the summer weather had been good for curing the seeds. I wondered briefly at the need for the antidote for the poison that was frequently found on the weapons of the orcs. The men that had been marauding our borders did not use the stuff but there were always orcs involved in the dark forces. If antidote was too much in demand I wasn't sure we would have enough.

My musings were interrupted by the alarm of an ambush that was first seen at the head of our line. Soon the call passed through the people. I am proud to say that not one of the Rohirrim wavered or panicked. The children were quickly shielded of course, but most men and many women drew arms and stood battle ready at moment's notice.

In fact, the enemy could not be seen by most of us on the road. The wargs and the vile creatures who rode them were in a field up and to the left of our route. The battle that ensued took place in a high meadow bordered by a bluff that dropped steeply to the river that we had crossed some hours ago.

While our warriors rode into battle our company came to a full halt. I worked diligently with several other healers to make ready for the inevitable wounds and injuries. We were not all that far from Helm's Deep and I hoped that we might make the security of those walls before we needed to treat the wounded.

I did not walk the battlefield myself. The skirmish was short but deadly to many of our brave sons and fathers. We are fierce warriors, and this was not our first battle with orcs and wargs. We were well outnumbered, though, and the factor of surprise did not help our forces. In the end we prevailed, but not without great cost. Nearly a dozen lives were lost, including one of the group of travelers that had come to free Theoden King from the black breath.

Indeed, my own battle did not begin until I started treating our warriors safely within the walls of Helm's Deep. The healers had been given a large wing of rooms well protected from the threats of the outside world, but for the protests of the soldiers sent for healing aid, one might have thought we'd set up shop at the summit of Mt. Doom. What quirk of Iluvatar's humor is it that the very men driven to heroic deeds in the heat of horrific battle are the same who cower and hide from the meek and humble healer? Yes, I say cower and hide. They pretend to brush off aid with an arrogant "I'm fine," but once they are finally corralled in submitting to the touch of a healer they are often as cautious as young maids. I swear it takes more energy to make a war fevered soldier to submit to healing than it does to perform the healing itself!

It had been a long evening, and I was growing weary of the battle of wills when I became aware of the presence of a stranger hovering and the edges of the large waiting area. We were working in a simple courtyard surrounded by wide, low walls that marked it as a place separate from nearby structures. Unlike the other men who congregated within the walls, this young one saw fit to set himself on the wall itself. In this way he had view of both the healing wing and by looking across and over the square, had a good view of the valley that lay beyond the safety of Helm's Deep. He wasn't a disruption. If anything his still countenance was in marked contrast to the grumblings and wheedling of those nearby. He sat very still, holding his right hand to his chest. His chin was lifted and his eyes were focused on something far away. Whether something in the field or within his own heart I could not tell. The only thing moving about him was several strands of golden blond hair that were caught in the wind. After several long glances, I surmised that he was the elf that had arrived to help return our Theoden King to his senses. He was lean and long, totally unlike the more robust and compact riders of the Mark.

It took nearly three hours to clear the courtyard of wounded, and during the time the elf didn't move so much as a muscle. I continued to glance at him from time to time, trying to surmise his condition. That he was wounded was evident – his left hand cradled his right most carefully. But I could tell that his wounds were greater than the physical. As a healer it is as much my charge to treat the heart as well as the body. Often the terrors of battle will leave scars far deeper than the flesh, although much can be done to promote healing if the trauma is properly handled early on. Because I saw that this was the case with the elf, I allowed him to wait until all the others had been served, so that I would have time to tend to him more carefully.

When at last I was done I washed my hands and then approached the silent figure.

"_Sedho, _be at peace," I said, happy to finally use my limited Sindarian vocabulary. "How can I serve you, lord?"

For a moment there was no movement, but then he turned his gaze upon me and I knew for the first time why people are in awe of the firstborn. His gaze was not unkind, but it was incredibly powerful. At first it was the deep blueness of his eyes that struck me, but then I saw behind the eyes a depth of age and wisdom . . . and profound sorrow. As I looked into his eyes it was the sorrow that washed over me and began to fill me with such intense longing and sense of anguished brokenness that I could hardly breathe.

I don't know how long that moment lasted, but finally I gathered my wits enough to ask again, "What is your name, lord elf, and how can I serve you?"

"My name is Legolas," said the figure before me, "I need no care, I am fine."

I had to suppress a grin at this. It seems the Rohirrim are not alone in their aversion to healers. He proceeded to grace me with another intense gaze which should have unraveled me, but instead only confirmed my determination to see to his wounds.

"If you are not in need of my services, then you should have no problem showing me that hand that you have so firmly clasped to your chest."

Legolas smiled grimly at that, and slowly extended his hand.

Gently, I held his hand palm upwards and pulled wide the long fingers of the elf. He was an archer. The first two fingers on his right hand were calloused near the joint. His palm was marred by a deep gash that ran from the heel of the palm through the valley between the thumb and index finger. The tear was jagged and dirty. I surmised that he had caught himself on the teeth of a warg. Infection would set in quickly if the wound was not cleaned. I released his hand and went to fetch a bowl of cleansing water and a rag.

Without asking leave, I grasped his hand again and set it in the water. Lifting it gently I irrigated the wound until the blood and dirt were fully removed. So intent was I on the task that I almost didn't notice Legolas' return to reverie. Finally I paused my ministrations and looked the elf full in the face.

"Not all wounds are of the flesh," I commented, "Tell me what ails your heart."

Legolas looked startled at the abruptness of my comment, but it served its purpose. He had been caught off his guard and I did not miss the pain that flickered across his face.

He licked his lips then, as though weighing the proper response to give. I could see the mask of propriety settle across his face for a moment, and then a demeanor of candor took its place.

"I grieve,_ penneth_, because I have lost one who is dear to me."

I mentally reviewed what I knew of our losses. I could name almost each of those who fell, but there had also been one of the strangers, no doubt one of the same party as the elf. I wondered who he might have been to this one.

"Such losses are hard," I conceded, "Can you tell me what happened?"

I gazed at him then, giving him my full attention, encouraging his trust. I myself was distracted for a moment to realize what an exceeding beautiful creature was set before me. He had the countenance of the heroes of ages. There was no blemish on his fair face, and he carried with him both an aura of innocence and great wisdom. I struggled for a moment to maintain my healer's distance.

He lifted his eyebrows and considered my question for a moment, then spoke. "His name was Estel, he was my friend, and he – " The eyes filled with tears. He averted his gaze and sighed deeply. "You are a healer," he finally said quietly. "What happens to mortals when they die?"

"Have you never seen death?" I asked, my curiosity usurping my role as healer.

Legolas smiled and shook his head sorrowfully. "At home I am captain to many. I've fought the forces of darkness since long before these walls were built. Over time I have lost many dear friends and comrades to death, but they are elves, and I know that our parting is for but a time." His gaze caught me again, "Do you know, that in all that time I never really known a mortal who has died? And now I have seen it twice within a moment. Boromir died a horrible hero's death and Aragorn, Estel, simply . . . fell."

I took up his hand again and began to slather it with a numbing ointment. "All mortals die, Legolas, it is the way of our destiny. We do not hope to be excused from death, only to bear it well when our time is come. As to where the spirits of the departed go," – I set his wounded hand on a towel on his knee, "As to that, I cannot say, only that the one who crafted so great and wonderful a world would surely not cease to care for those who have been taken from it."

Legolas grasped my shoulder with his good hand, and searched me with his eyes, "I know in my head that Estel is dead. I saw the cliff from which he fell. There is no way that any could survive the fall. My mind is clear, but my heart refuses to listen. I feel as though he still might live, but that simply cannot be. This discord is so – I have never known this face of grief."

I grasped his wrist with my hand and tried again to offer him solace. "The finality of mortal death is hard for all of us to bear. I have felt as you do often. I think it is a part of the wound of grieving. Our heads know the facts, but our hearts are ever stubborn in their hope." I stopped then, seeing that my words were too small for the sorrow he was feeling. _Ai_, those blue eyes had the depths of the ocean in them and they were so troubled and dark!

"Hold your hand still, now," I said "I'll get my needle threaded and we'll set you with a few stitches." My hand automatically went to my belt pouch. I removed the whole pouch from my waist and started laying out the contents on the ridge of the low wall. Legolas didn't move when I pulled forth the altheas and the ranger's brooch, but he startled with surprise when he saw the medicine packet that my grandfather had received from Elrond the Wise.

"Where did you get this?" he demanded, his slender fingers hovering over the packet, not quite daring to touch it.

"It was a gift to my grandfather. Elrond the Wise gave it to him to use in time of need."

"Do you know what it is?" There was definitely a tremble in his voice.

I wondered for a moment if I should not have brought the packet forth. Legolas needed no new trauma to rock his troubled soul. I shook my head.

"May I hold it?"

"Hold it? You may have it, if that will lift your heart. It is medicine for an elf, or so I've been told, and you are the only elf I have ever met."

He actually smiled at that, and I could almost see a spark of happiness in his eyes. Gingerly he took the packet and unwrapped it. What had looked to be deep green cloth was actually two large leaves that had been wrapped around the contents. The leaves had dried over time. Within the package was a creamy golden triangle that almost looked like a wafer or loaf. It must have been well over fifty years old, but it looked as bright and fresh as daily bread.

Legolas gently broke off one corner of the loaf and put it in his mouth.

"Wait! Do you know what you are doing?" I protested, "That is at least a half century old. I don't need to nurse you more than I already am."

Legolas actually laughed at that, and I shall never forget the music of his laughter. It was like the wisp of a melody or the sound of a brook at snowmelt. I found myself smiling as well.

"Tell me, Legolas, what medicine is this that so quickly restores the spirit? You were sorely wounded in your heart, and now you are smiling. What is this?"

Legolas spoke as he chewed upon the morsel, "It is lembas bread. It is no medicine, but bread from the grain of Yavanna. It is crafted from the Song itself by the Yavannildi." He sighed deeply, but with relief, not with sorrow. I watched amazed as he seemed to right himself and draw again into balance. He spoke again, "When it is made, the very essence of the Song is kneaded into the dough. The memories and well wishes of the firstborn are poured in as well. Its substance restores the body, but its essence restores the soul." He broke another small piece from the loaf and savored it for a moment before chewing. "One taste brings to me memories of all the good in my life. It reminds me of home, of those who love me."

I smiled then, remembering the bread that my grandmother baked. I wondered then if she might have dinner waiting for me. Knowing her, there might even be fresh bread.

"Perhaps there is your answer," I said slowly. "Even when our eyes no longer see those we love, they are seen in our hearts and from there we can call them forth. Surely that is reason for our hearts to hope." I smiled as I thought of the role fresh bread had played in my own life, "Bread made with love can go far in opening the eyes of the heart."

I bent then and set to my work stitching his hand. The numbing ointment had worked well and he did not flinch. Finally, I tied off the last knot and continued,

"I have no power to ease the burden on your soul," I told Legolas, "but if the lembas will help you to defer your sorrow, I am glad. Come with me and I will show you the healing properties of the bread of the mortals. My grandmother is wise, and if she can't answer your questions, at least she will ease your heart with good food and kind fellowship."

Legolas gave me a measured look then. I felt as though he were searching my very soul. "It is well," he said, "I will come." He took a deep cleansing breath and then smiled again, a genuine smile, as though the darkness that had bound his heart was truly lifted for a time. He slid from his perch on the wall and we made our way home.


End file.
